


O Gentle Faustus

by eldritcher



Series: The Minerva Quartet [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Wartime - Warning, vulgar words.
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Minerva McGongall reads Faustus, casts a Cruciatus or two, and winds up in Inverness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Gentle Faustus

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for the unwieldy, fragmented story-structure and for the first person.

**Title:** O Gentle Faustus  
 **Author:** [](http://eldritcher.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://eldritcher.livejournal.com/)**eldritcher**  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 8500  
 **Characters and/or Pairings:** Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Harry Potter, Voldemort.  
 **Summary:** In which Minerva McGongall reads Faustus, casts a Cruciatus or two, and winds up in Inverness.  
 **Warnings:** Wartime, vulgar words.  
 **Author's Notes:** I apologise for the unwieldy, fragmented story-structure and for the first person.

~~~ 

1943.

There were few activities that I loved as dearly as reading a book while seated comfortably underneath the tree beside the great Hogwarts lake. In September, while the sun still shone bright upon the green carpets of grass sprawled on the school grounds, the warm bole of the tree against my back, a cup of black tea kept warm by magic by my elbow and a book on my lap was all that I needed to while my weekend away.

The girls in my dormitory teased me, the boys in my year found me intimidating because of the books, and Professor Dumbledore gently suggested ever so often that I might want to accompany my friends on Hogsmeade trips.

__  
“Oh gentle Faustus, lay that damned book aside,  
And gaze not on it lest it tempt thy soul  
And heap God’s heavy wrath upon thy head.”  


I looked up at the interruption. I had not known that Riddle possessed such a fine voice, crafted for singing.

“It is only a play,” I told my interruption, trying my best to mask the pleasure I felt on knowing that at least one other person in this Castle had liked this book enough to remember verses from it.

“It is an unusual play, Miss McGonagall,” he said, kneeling down beside me and craning to look at the title. “You ought to read it in German. I found the effect more compelling. English dampens Faustus’s follies somehow.”

He looked charming and self-assured as he always did, even with his school robes old and threadbare. I had wondered about him once or twice over the summer, when the Muggle war had come up during conversations with my brother. Riddle lived in a London orphanage, and London was being bombed by the Germans, or so the tidings said. He seemed fine enough, though abnormally thin and pale.

“You have a nice voice for singing,” I told him frankly.

He shrugged, and then said, “I have the book in German. I can lend it to you, if you would like.”

I nodded, itching to get back to my reading. Perhaps I would take him up on it. He had lent me his copy of a fairytale book before the summer. Now, however, I desired the most to return to my reading. He seemed to understand, because he apologised most prettily, gave me a bow, and took his leave.

Slytherin and Gryffindor students were not comrades, but Riddle held himself above notions such as that and I did not consider it sacrilege to have a conversation with him. He was a decent boy, except for the petty warfare of disobedience he inflicted on Professor Dumbledore. The Professor was harsher on him than he was on others. What did they have against each other? I shook my head and went back to my book. Strangely enough, I began imagining Mephistopheles’s stanzas being read out in Riddle’s voice.

~~~ 

Time went by. Riddle irritated Professor Dumbledore in our Transfiguration classes, the Professor took points and often assigned detentions involving manual labour to his errant student, and the rest of us bemoaned as an excellently taught class was being marred by this petty power-struggle of teacher and student.

I found myself more inclined to sympathise with the Professor. The sensible part of me told me sternly that my sympathies lay with the Professor likely because of my inappropriate affection for the man.

There was Alastor Moody in my year trying to catch my attention. There were others too. We were in our Sixth Year, and most of us were concerned about romance. I was not. I knew what I desired would not come to be, and I knew I would not settle for anyone else. Yet, when Professor Dumbledore’s warm smile was directed at me, I was hard put not to fall to my knees and confess it all. Some nights, I had nightmares, wherein I confessed, or was found out, and the Professor condemned me in his harshest of tones, tones he reserved exclusively for Riddle. None of my dreams involving the Professor ended well. In this, I differed from my classmates, for they dreamed of romances that culminated in happiness.

I stood by the large bay window in the Transfiguration classroom, alone and early to the class. I came in early, in the hope of stealing a few moments with the Professor before the other students came in. I was surprised, then, to see Riddle walking in. He made it a point to be late to these classes, and the only times when he had arrived on time was when Abraxas Malfoy had coaxed him with whatever barter Slytherins used amongst each other.

“You are early,” I remarked.

“Miss McGongall, I hardly can do anything else. I have been told that I shall be expelled if I am late again to this class.”

That was rather harsh. I said nothing.

Professor Dumbledore and Riddle had nursed their dislike for each other over the years. In the beginning, it had been humorous. Alastor had recently said during a Common Room discussion that it no longer was advisable to hold grudges against Riddle, who had over the years become well-connected, thanks to Abraxas Malfoy’s patronage, and exceedingly well-liked among his Slytherin peers. I sensed polarisation of loyalties. The school loved Albus Dumbledore. Yet there were those in the school who loved Riddle too. This was growing beyond mere classroom politics to something darker.

“Why are you early?” he asked then. His eyes were too bright and perceptive, just as Albus Dumbledore’s gaze was. Yet, I feared that Riddle saw what the Professor yet had not.

“Dear me, dear me, Miss McGonagall,” he said softly, coming close.

“What is it?” I whispered, knowing my secret was flayed open to his gaze. He knew.

__  
“Now Faustus, must thou be damned?  
Away with such vain fancies and despair.”  


His voice was as bright and pure as it had been earlier that year when he had sung a stanza from Marlowe’s play. I did not know how to escape from its trap. He knew me. Vain fancies and despair. He knew.

“You cannot compare me to Faustus,” I blustered. “He was an intelligent man. Renowned.”

“Epic poetry is rarely written about women, Miss McGonagall,” Riddle said quietly.

“That is unfair!” I said. I truly was aggrieved by that. I had been, even as a child. All the protagonists had been men.

“Very few women are as you,” Riddle replied. “Why do you think I compare you to Faustus?”

“I do not make his mistake,” I told him sternly.

He may have known my secret, but that gave him no right to presumptuously assume that I clung to my obsession with Albus Dumbledore because of my pride and unwillingness to admit that it was folly.

“I have no interest in the matter,” Riddle said, shrugging.

 

~~~ 

 

1976.

 

I was leaving Madam Malkin’s after picking up yet another order for Albus (the man was likely the most profitable patron Malkin had), when I bumped into Abraxas Malfoy. He looked careworn and tired. All of us did. It was an ugly war.

“Professor McGonagall!” he said politely, looking heartened truly to see me.

I could not help a smile at his never-failing courtesies.

Death Eaters murdered in cold blood. Aurors murdered in cold blood. Abraxas Malfoy had also murdered, once, when he had Apparated into the middle of a fray in his dressing gown. Riddle had been encircled by Alastor’s finest Aurors and had been losing. Then had come Abraxas like a guardian angel.

On winter nights, when the land was as barren as my womb, I thought of Abraxas Malfoy and sympathised. He had been a bright, kind, brilliant, young man, who had thrown away a future because of his heart’s allegiance. I stood guilty of the same. If I had been sensible, I would have married a man who could love me well, instead of being Albus Dumbledore’s soldier and occasional bedwarmer. If Abraxas had been sensible, he would have fallen in love with his pretty wife and kept away from Riddle’s insanity. Instead, he had been a fool. His wife was dead, his son was a Death Eater, and he persisted in his folly.

“Frightful weather!” Abraxas said, holding the door open for me, and then proffering his right arm. His cane, ever his companion, was arranged artfully on his left arm.

“Why, Abraxas,” I said wryly, “one might think that there is no war going on and you will offer to walk me to the Leaky Cauldron.”

“There is a war going on,” he replied. “All the more reason why I should walk you to the Leaky Cauldron. It is the proper thing to do, when one sees a lady unaccompanied in such dangerous times.”

“I can take care of myself,” I told him plainly. “We wouldn't want tales of you cavorting with enemy women being carried back to your lover, would we now?”

Abraxas laughed, and it was the merriest sound I had heard since the war had begun. Then he said quietly, “We wouldn’t want tales of you cavorting with the Dark Lord’s lover being carried back to Albus Dumbledore, would we now?”

“Albus Dumbledore would not care,” I said miserably, before I could stop myself. I inhaled sharply when I realised whom I had spoken to.

“Neither would the Dark Lord,” Abraxas told me gently. “They have their wars. They have their fools.”

He was a kind man who had had the singular misfortune to become enamoured by a madman. He walked me to the Leaky Cauldron, gallantly kissed my hand, and took his leave.

~~~ 

1980.

 

“He likes you,” Severus told me, as we took our customary walk after another tense Order meeting, which had comprised of Sirius calling Severus all sorts of names, James protecting Lily from Severus’s gaze, Albus trying to ignore that, Alastor trying to regale us with his latest bloody exploits, and Aberforth interceding whenever he pleased to.

I looked at the boy. He was still a boy, barely twenty. He was mature, compared to the others, but then he spent his time evenly divided between the enemy camp and ours, walking a thin line with bravery few could begin to fathom.

“Who likes me?” I asked Severus, idly wondering if he had noticed that Albus and I were intimates.

Rarely anyone noticed. It was not as if there was anything to notice. I was old, past childbearing age. Before Severus had joined us, I would take my walks alone after Order meetings, thinking of Riddle and Dumbledore, and of this war. I remembered bitterly Riddle’s warnings. Albus had refused to grant me a child, and had not given me even his name in marriage.

I walked with Severus now. He had no companions here, due to the taint he bore. I found him pleasant to converse with, though crude in his language often.

“The Dark Lord,” Severus whispered, quickly glancing around to make sure we were far out of earshot.

I looked at the boy, incredulous.

“He goes on about you often,” Severus said, sniffing.

I bit down a smile at his sniff, which was eerily reminiscent of Abraxas Malfoy’s sniff. He dutifully copied so many of the dead Malfoy’s mannerisms that I half-suspected he held a torch for Abraxas.

Riddle went on about me? I stared at Severus. Riddle had never struck me as someone who noticed women. Or men. He had only noticed Abraxas Malfoy, but I suspected that was more due to Malfoy’s persistence than due to Riddle’s awareness.

“Why would he go on about me?”

“I don’t know!” Severus exclaimed. “He does go on about the intrepid spirit and resourcefulness of Miss McGonagall.”

I shook my head. It was pleasing, nonetheless. Unlike Albus, Riddle had no incentive to compliment me. I frowned. Riddle had killed my brother. I found it difficult at times to accept that the charming boy who had sung of Faustus’s plight and the monster we feared were the same.

~~~ 

I had secrets of my own that I carefully kept from Albus.

I met Walburga Black often in the alleys of Muggle London.

Clad in her black, velveteen winter-cloak, she made a strange sight amongst the unfortunate souls that plagued those alleys. She frowned at their plight, frowned at me, and frowned when I spoke of Sirius Black.

I gave her news of her son, news that she frowned at and yet eagerly hearkened to. I asked her for nothing in return.

“Why?” she asked me. “Why do you do this? Why would you give me my son’s tidings and ask for no barter?”

I wondered why. Did I want a secret of my own? Was I resentful of Albus and his secret-keeping? Was it that I was childless and sympathised with a woman who had her sons fighting on opposing sides of an ugly war?

I told her, “You are Sirius’s mother.”

She frowned, clearly finding the answer unacceptable, but let it pass.

Sometimes, when I walked my usual beat on the lawns of the Castle, I wondered if it was better to be childless. Walburga Black was falling apart. She was not a weak woman. The Prewett widow was inconsolable after her sons’s deaths.

~~~ 

1981.

 

“It is over,” I told Severus gently.

He shook his head, openly weeping. I could see that his face bore marks of nails. Had he clawed himself when he had first heard the tidings? He stank of alcohol and vomit. I clucked, went over, and pulled him into an upright position. For a man, he was weak.

“Why am I alive?”

I hushed him, forced a Sleeping Draught down his throat and left him on the uncomfortable floor. I had not thought that he would survive the war. I wished that I could stay with the boy, but I had to find Albus and enquire about plans for orphaned Harry’s future.

I had expected Severus to die. I had expected James and Lily to live. I had not expected the Dark Lord to fall like he had. I had thought it would be at the end of a duel with Albus, as Grindelwald had been defeated.

Now the Dark Lord was gone, and we were left with an orphan. I feared for Harry so. Albus was brooding. He did not believe the enemy gone. Alastor, Amelia, Barty and Rufus had gone to Albania to hunt down whatever remained of the monster that had terrorised the Wizarding World for years.

~~~ 

 

“I wish I hadn’t had a child,” the Longbottom matriarch said. Her voice barely shook, but wretchedness sat stamped high on her austere features.

Albus and I were with her, visiting the poor Aurors in the Janus Thickey ward.

“Rest assured that Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband will be brought to trial,” Albus told her gently.

Frank Longbottom dribbled spit into his orange juice, Alice Longbottom giggled like a school-girl, and the baby boy on Augusta Longbottom’s lap began crying.

Bella Black had been a beautiful child. She had been a cruel child. All the Blacks I had taught had cruelty in them.

“You say that he is not dead,” the old woman told Albus, clenching her frail wrists on the ruffles of her skirt. “I have this child now. What will become of him, Dumbledore? Will he again fight as your soldier? How do I know I am not raising the child as a lamb to slaughter?”

“Voldemort will not harm your grandson,” Albus promised her. “He will not harm your family again. Please trust me, Augusta. We have taken measures.”

~~~ 

 

I was at Walburga Black’s funeral. There were a handful of people. Most looked French. The only relatives Walburga had left that were not incarcerated in Azkaban were likely distant cousins established on the Continent and uninvolved in the war here.

And the Malfoys.

I had come alone. Albus had seen no reason to come to Walburga’s funeral. He did not have any. I had to come, however. I had given the woman news of her son’s continued existence throughout the war. I had not liked Walburga but I felt the need to turn up at her funeral.

Narcissa had skulked about, trying her best to stay away from me, and had wrung her hands when I had cornered her.

“Professor McGonagall,” Narcissa began, looking around earnestly, as if expecting some knight to come and rescue her from me.

“Your sister is a deranged bitch your family should have sent to Janus Thickey long ago!” I told Narcissa. The plight of the Longbottoms haunted me. I dreamed of Alice giggling and Frank spitting into his orange juice before drinking it.

Narcissa drew herself up then, eyes sharp and full of hatred. “If you are so overcome by righteousness, perhaps you should look after your own better. Severus is still in Azkaban.”

Severus. Yes. Albus was working on his release. Barty and the Aurors were keen to appease the public by throwing anyone associated with the Death Eaters into Azkaban without trial. Albus had told me that Severus was being treated gently and with courtesy. Knowing what I did of Alastor and Barty, I had found that difficult to believe, but I had believed blindly since the alternative was too dreadful.

Later, that night, after Albus had taken his pleasure and was preparing to leave for his rooms, I asked him, “How can someone be as cruel as Bellatrix Lestrange?”

He sighed. In the unforgiving moonlight, he was a tired, old man. My heart went out to him. My heart went out to myself more. What had I made of my life?

“Minerva, may we speak tomorrow?”

He was quiet when he made love to me. He was quiet when he took pleasure from my body. He was not fond of conversation. He kept his eyes closed often, as if he wished I was someone else. Once, I had been confident enough to be not affected by his ways. It had changed. I did not bleed with the moons anymore. Albus continued his pleasantries and he had never brought up the prospect of children. He loved me, I was sure. There were lies, there were deceptions, there was a ghost in Nuremberg, and there was my womb barren. There was love too.

I closed my eyes, let him leave, and tried my best to not think of Riddle smiling charmingly and cautioning me not to repeat Faustus’s mistake.

~~~ 

 

 

I was drunk. It was my birthday. Severus had found out somehow. We had had a merry dinner before retiring for whisky in the comfort of my parlour.

“Sometimes, I compare myself to Abraxas Malfoy,” I told Severus.

“Why?” Severus asked. He was squinting at the Laphroaig with the focus of the truly drunk. He could never hold his drink well. I wondered where he had obtained such a fine vintage from, at such short notice.

“He loved You Know Who. I love Albus. It is all the same.”

“No, it isn’t!” Severus said staunchly. “Albus is better for the greater good. The Dark Lord is better for your personal good.”

“What?” I asked him, bewildered.

“There is a stark difference. The Dark Lord is nice to you if he likes you. Albus sacrifices you if he likes you.”

Severus over-simplified everything.

Severus continued, “The Dark Lord cared enough to weep over Abraxas Malfoy’s corpse and to raise a field of ever-blooming bluebells over his grave. Albus won’t do that for you.”

“He would do that for Grindelwald,” I pointed out.

“See, that is the difference!” Severus exulted. “The Dark Lord knew the difference between the dead and the living. Albus doesn’t.”

I frowned at him.

“Minerva, Minerva, don’t you see? Don’t you see?” Severus asked, erratically shaking his whiskey glass in my face that I began worrying about whiskey on my fine Turkish rug.

“You ought to put down that glass,” I told him sternly.

He groaned and continued, “The Dark Lord wouldn’t have taken you to bed and then made you hate your existence because he worshipped a dead man long gone. Albus does. They are very different.”

There were rumours that You Know Who had taken a lover after Abraxas Malfoy’s death. Alastor had not denied them. The prurient, gossip-loving part of me wanted to know more about the identity of this chap. I was sure that it was a man, though Albus speculated often about Bellatrix Lestrange.

I was about to ask, but Albus popped in then, and said merrily, “I thought I might invite myself to the party, since the fine vintage you are enjoying was somehow appropriated from my liquor cabinet.”

Severus looked unapologetic. “I wanted to celebrate her birthday seeing that you can’t be arsed to,” he said tartly.

Regret and guilt flickered on Albus’s face. I felt wretched. He was kind, brilliant, noble and full of compassion. That ought to be enough. It wasn’t, but it ought to be. At least, there was enough whiskey.  
Quickly, I Summoned another glass and thrust it at Albus.

~~~ 

 

Severus came to me, during the second task of the Triwizard tournament, and told me softly, “He will return. He is growing stronger. Much stronger.”

I had trusted Albus to protect us. I looked at the evidence clear, that ugly tattoo on Severus’s arm, unable to tear my gaze away.

Harry came back to us, a few weeks later, bearing bravely Diggory’s corpse.

I had known many resourceful, courageous and noble men. Albus was one. Severus was another. Yet, I had never known anyone half as brave as Harry. He made merry with his young friends, bearing the weight of somebody’s curse with an acceptance I envied. I had never learned to accept my fate, even if it had been a fate I had chosen. What choice had Harry had?

“He is Lily’s child,” Albus remarked.

“He is not,” I told him. “Harry will never give up on his friends. Lily did.”

Harry did not give up on his godfather. Harry did not give up on Ronald Weasley. Harry did not give up on Albus despite his Headmaster’s secret-keeping. Harry went on, trusting and brave, with a heart that was pure despite everything he had lived through.

The rest of us went on, too. Severus went back to spy. Albus and I waited for his safe return each night he was called. Sirius and Remus took on so much on their shoulders, willing to do anything they could to spare young Harry.

At a celebration to honour Alastor’s career as a distinguished Auror, held in the summer of 1996, I met Amelia Bones after a long time.

“Minerva!” she said gladly. “We are all aging rather well, don’t you think?”

I did not think so. I saw no reason to tell her that. So I nodded politely. We spoke of this and that, and our words turned to the war that would be upon us soon.

“He is rather broken, they say,” Amelia whispered. “Alastor tells me that there is no sanity left.”

Poor Harry walked the corridors alone at nights, in a bid to keep the monster’s madness away from his nightmares. I feared their connection. I feared that even Albus did not understand it completely. If he understood it, he would have found some way to severe it and spared the boy those nightmares. Severus had told us unambiguously that You Know Who was stark raving mad.

“I think I might not make it out of this alive,” Amelia said suddenly. I looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on Alastor and Rufus, who were chatting in an alcove nearby.

“Whyever would you think such a thing?” I asked.

“Premonition,” she replied. “He is mad, but I have a suspicion that he has not forgotten.”

Alastor, Amelia, Barty and Rufus had gone to Albania after You Know Who had fallen, in order to exterminate him completely.

“What happened in Albania?” I asked her, worried by the strength of conviction in her doomsaying.

She smiled, changed the topic, and would not brook my attempts to return to that subject again.

That night, I walked the Castle grounds alone. Fang barked in the distance.

Albus no longer came to my bed at nights. I was old. While he still cared, he did not find pleasure anymore in my body. I had not realized how much I had defined myself as his bedwarmer until he had stopped using me for the purpose.

There was Harry, young and brave. Albus and I were tottering on, soldiering as best as we could, to make sure that we protected the boy.

~~~ 

 

Severus killed Albus. I spent my nights weeping for both of them. I set trees on fire pretending that each of them was Severus. I blamed Harry for not stopping Severus. I resented Albus for begging.

That wretched summer, I was still abed one long night, when came knocking on my door. There was only Argus in the Castle. He would not approach me unless he had good reason to. The knocking started anew. I sat up, startled. I knew the knock. Wand in hand, willing to die but wishing desperately to curse my visitor to damnation before I was killed, I threw the door open.

Severus stood there, looking starved and wretched and apologetic. He looked unarmed.

I did not hesitate.

“Crucio!” I cried out, spurred by the pain of losing the only man I had loved.

He fell but was otherwise unharmed. I looked at my wand, betrayed.

“You need to mean it, Miss McGonagall,” whispered a voice I knew well. It was still as melodious as it had been when it had sung Faustus to me. The corridor torches flared bright. Before me stood the Dark Lord. He looked amused by my attempt at revenge. Severus looked terrified.

“Let me,” the Dark Lord said, and came closer. I withdrew a few steps into my room. He offered me his palms open, showing that he was unarmed.

“Let me teach you, Miss McGonagall,” he murmured, walking into the room, taking up position behind me, and gently taking my wand-hand in his.

“Think of how much you trusted this man,” he whispered. “Think of how many times you have defended him.”

I had defended Severus to his naysayers. I had stood between Alastor and him. I had defended Severus to Harry. I had tried to spare him as much as I could. I had come to love him as any mother would love a son. I looked at the man at my feet, who looked terrified, who had killed Albus.

“Crucio,” I said calmly, and he danced like the spider in Moody’s classroom had. He screamed louder than any man I had heard scream.

I did not stop until the Dark Lord pressed down hard on a spot on my wrist, causing me to drop my wand. I was panting with exertion. Severus was a sobbing, sweet-smelling, quivering mass of tears, sweat and urine.

“You will break his sanity if you continue,” the Dark Lord said.

Was this how Bella Black had broken the Longbottoms? Had it taken only a curse? I stooped down to pick up my wand again. I wanted to continue. I wanted him to beg as Albus had begged. And then I wanted to kill him as he had killed Albus.

Then Severus looked up at me, and his eyes held only fear and acceptance. Guilt overcame me. I rushed to him, terrified, and embraced him. He hesitated only for an instant before falling into my embrace.

“Hush,” the Dark Lord said. “You are quite overwrought. I suggest that you retire. We can speak of administrative matters tomorrow.”

I was babbling. I was crying. I had bit down on my lips enough to make them bleed. My fingers were running over Severus’s shaking limbs, willing them to calm, willing them to be resilient to the the harm I had caused. Why had I done this? Why had he killed Albus?

“Severus, see that she retires,” the Dark Lord commanded, and left us alone.

“Why?” I asked, sobbing. Severus did not give me an answer. Instead, he half-dragged, half-carried me to bed and pulled the covers up.

“We will have to speak of the school administration tomorrow,” he said tiredly, still trembling. “The Dark Lord is insistent on having a say. Don’t offend him, please. Lie low.”

“I am sorry!” I begged him. The image of him screaming and convulsing under my wand was burned into my head. “I am so sorry.”

“So am I,” he told me, patting my hand awkwardly. “So am I, everyday.”

~~~ 

 

I was called to the Headmaster’s office the next day. The Dark Lord sat on Albus’s chair, waved me courteously into a chair across the desk, and steepled his fingers before resting his chin upon them. Around us, the portraits stirred and moved restlessly. None of them had left. Perhaps he had trapped them there. I looked at the sole source of strength I had left - Albus’s portrait. He smiled at me and I knew I would survive this.

“He is dead,” the Dark Lord remarked, smiling when he realized where my gaze was affixed.

“Death comes to everyone, Riddle,” I said sharply. His eyes widened, perhaps because he had expected me to be frightened enough to not dare using the name he had once gone by.

“How will you die, Miss McGongall?”

“It does not matter. I am not afraid,” I said quietly.

“Very well, then,” the Dark Lord said, and waved his hand. Albus’s portrait-frame began shaking on the wall, and his likeness in the portrait began screaming. The other portraits quickly closed their eyes. The Dark Lord sat there, watching me.

I was on my feet then, shouting the curse I had cast yesterday for the first time in my wretched life, spurred by dark rage. Nothing happened.

“I am very resilient,” the Dark Lord murmured. “You would need to throw a stronger Cruciatus to bring me to my knees as you did Severus yesterday.”

“Stop it!” I shouted.

“No, it is time,” he said quietly. “It is time to leave, Miss McGonagall. I had warned you long ago. You persisted in your folly. Fly away, little bird. Soon all places will be hell that are not heaven.”

Faustus again. When all the world dissolved, and every creature had been purified, all places will be hell that are not heaven.

“Stop, please. I will do anything. Why? Why?” I asked, sobbing, watching the torment of Albus (never my Albus, he had never been mine though I had always been his).

The Dark Lord shook his head and replied, “This is not your war. I am willing to be gracious and let you leave.”

“You murdered Amelia!”

“Madam Bones robbed me of a memory!” He shouted, fury straining the nerves at his temples, rendering him uglier than he was. He had been so handsome once. “With her friends, she came when I was at my weakest and robbed me of a memory most important.”

The Albania story. Amelia had never told anyone what had transpired. Albus had been worried that whatever they had done might have tipped You Know Who irrevocably into madness. What could it have been? Certainly nothing to do with Abraxas, for it was reported by Order intelligence that the Dark Lord still remembered his dead lover. Nothing to do with his purported immortality either, for he went about entirely confidently except when he dealt with Harry.

I inhaled sharply. Perhaps something to do with his second lover? The one he had taken towards the end, right before he had fallen? Barty had gone with the Aurors to Albania. Barty had been cruel and intelligent. I looked at the monster before me, and remembered how he had killed them all with great cruelty - Barty first, and then Amelia, and then Alastor, and then Rufus.

“You have forgotten your lover’s face,” I told him quietly. “That is the memory they stole.”

I wondered what it might have felt like - to be weak and defenseless, and to be cursed and tortured, and to be Obliviated of the one memory that mattered the most - the memory of a living lover. I shuddered. I did not care to know.

He looked at me thoughtfully, head half-inclined to his side. Tom Riddle had done the same. Albus stopped screaming. Relieved, I exhaled.

“I killed Grindelwald, Miss McGonagall. The last thing in his mind was a young Albus Dumbledore nude and sprawled on summer’s green grass by a brook in Godric’s Hollow.”

The portrait of Albus stirred restlessly. Blue eyes held sadness, and wild happiness, and then overwhelming regret. None of those emotions were on my behalf. I had never had Albus.

“You should leave,” the monster told me.

As I walked back to my chambers, back straight and head proudly upheld, I realised that the last few words he had spoken about Grindelwald’s memory had broken me more throughly than my entire life with Albus had.

That night, I went to Soho, to the dark Muggle alleys. There were wastrels and drunkards and thugs. And there were starving, poor boys who would suck cock or eat cunt as long as they were paid a pittance. I walked, unmindful of leers or pleas, until I found one that I liked enough - his head was a burning auburn, his eyes were blue, and when he smiled at me, it was the same roguish smile that Albus had sometimes bestowed.

“How much?” I whispered.

He looked me up and down, lit up a cigarette, took his sweet time, and said, “Twelve pounds. You are old.”

It was the best twelve pounds I had spent.

When I skulked back to the Castle, smelling of cigarette smoke and man, Severus came to the gates and let me in. He would not meet my gaze.

~~~ 

 

Harry came in, bright and defiant, when we had all lost hope. He defended me from the Carrows, then took my hand, and said earnestly, “I promise it will be over soon.”

I believed him. I had been reluctant to believe Albus when he had assured me that he had it all planned out. I had never believed Severus when he had said that he trusted Albus’s plan. I believed this young boy of seventeen.

He kept his word. He was braver than all of us had been. He smiled for us, even after he had lost everything, from his parents and godfather to his youth and mentors. He smiled for us even after he had killed the monster. He had not used an Unforgivable, but he had killed the monster nonetheless.

I knelt before Severus’s portrait and begged forgiveness. He looked embarrassed and sad, and asked me to stop.

“If Voldemort hadn’t stopped me, I would have continued,” I said frankly.

“He likely wanted to save the final stroke for himself,” Severus said with a weak smile that I wanted to wipe off.

“Why didn’t he kill me?” I wondered. I had often wondered that.

Severus shrugged and went back to sleep.

Portraits were skilled at avoidance. I was also good at it. I had cast drapes over Albus’s portrait and had never looked at it after we had won the war. I had resented him fiercely, for making me believe the worst of Severus, for making me believe it well enough to cast a Curse that had made the poor man lose dignity and scream in pain as if he had been Faustus dragged to hell.

~~~ 

 

On the sixth Victory Day, Harry sat huddled in a chair across mine, nursing a snifter of brandy, and pensively looking at Severus’s portrait.

“You should be out celebrating,” the portrait told him.

“What would I celebrate?” Harry asked, with one of his ethereal, sad smiles. “You are dead. Professor Dumbledore is dead. My parents are dead. Sirius is dead. Remus and Tonks are dead.”

“You are alive,” Severus pointed out. “And the Dark Lord is dead.”

Harry waved his hand half-heartedly and said, “I killed the mad sod. Why does everyone say that I saved the world or that he is dead? He is dead because I killed him. I did not even kill him very cleanly, you know. I killed him piece by piece, Horcrux by Horcrux. It is very convenient to forget that. The greater good and all that.”

“The greater good is important,” I told Harry sternly, trying to not reveal how much I had been moved by his words.

I had cursed Severus because I had ended up believing their deception. The deception had been for the greater good. There had been so many deceptions that I had believed over the years, each orchestrated by Albus or Severus for the greater good. In the end, the men I had trusted had all deceived me, and the man who had murdered them all had been told me the truth.

“It was your destiny,” Severus said. Albus had said that once too.

“The last word he said was Abraxas,” Harry said quietly. “It haunts my dreams. He has managed to haunt my dreams even after his death, the persistent bugger. He was an absolutely psychotic tyrant who needed to be stopped and his thoughts whenever I broke into them had had more bloodshed than I can tell you, but there was also other things - he walked a lot through a field of bluebells, he wept kneeling before a portrait, he obsessed over a nude, faceless man to the point where I was more sick of it than of the bloodshed. He died as anyone else does, you know, thinking of a person he loved.”

“I think he might have been obsessing more over the facelessness than the nudity,” I told Harry, who looked quite embarrassed.

“Why?” Severus asked, looking the most interested I had seen him after his death.

“He had forgotten the face,” I told him. “Aurors who went to Albania after his fall got him and Obliviated a memory. He was quite irate when he got back into a body - none of them died cleanly. Albus thought that it might have caused an irrevocable break with sanity.”

Harry was pale and ashen, and said, “I can’t imagine what that might have been like.”

“He was mad as any Bedlamite, a murderer, and a tyrant long before that,” I told him firmly.

Severus had fled his portrait.

“What-?” Harry began, surprised.

“Likely gone to give his old chum Malfoy this tasty tidbit,” I told Harry. “Portraits are fond of gossip. It is the only currency they have for barter usually.”

Harry shook his head, still distracted by what I had told him. I let him fall into his thoughts, and mused on Severus. He had been a brilliant actor. Perhaps he had even deceived himself.

“I wish I had not killed him,” Harry spoke finally. His voice was weighed down by guilt. “I know he had to be killed. I wish I had not been the one.”

I remembered how ecstatic I had been when Severus had been flailing and screaming under my Cruciatus. I remembered Frank Longbottom dribbling and Alice giggling. I remembered Albus refusing to stay a single night after sex. I remembered a young Tom Riddle reciting Faustus to me. I remembered paying a man in Soho the sum of twelve pounds for a night’s reprieve.

I looked at the man before me, ridden by guilt and regret, who had saved us all, and told him, “My dear Harry, only remember that you were better than all of us.”

~~~ 

Hermione Granger was a talented witch. She was also a clever one. She went on to write _’Lemon Drops’_ , a bestseller by all standards both in Britain and on the Continent. Who was not interested in Hermione’s well-written, well-researched book about the lives of Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald? I had no cause to quibble about her success, but for the fact that I received hundreds of Howlers from angry women all over the world who painted me in their imagination as the vile disruption to the true love between two doomed Wizards.

My womb was barren, my wrinkles were fierce, the man I considered my lover was dead, the man I considered my protege was dead, my friends were all dead, and I was still dealing with Howlers in the Great Hall before hundreds of gossiping, scandal-mongering students.

Harry apologised. What did he have to apologise for? Hermione had only written the truth and could not be blamed for the actions of her dim-witted readers.

“Love is a messy affair,” Severus told me, trying to comfort.

He failed at that miserably, as he always had.

The persistent bugger continued, saying, “I am confident Miss Granger’s scholarly ability makes the book a truer account than Skeeter’s book about my life was.”

I stared at him. The Skeeter book had been terrible. Harry and I had read extracts out to each other, laughing and bemoaning the sheer ridiculousness of Skeeter’s portrayal of Severus in _‘He walked in the Shadow of the Valley of Death_.’

Perhaps I had been sorely tried by a series of irritants that day. Irritably, I told Severus, “Skeeter would have had a field day with the real account. It was, after all, more scandalous than anything her quill could have conjured.”

“What might you mean?” Severus asked, puffing his chest and trying in vain to look unruffled.

“The man who replaced Abraxas Malfoy,” I told him, remembering how Albus had begged this man, remembering Lily’s bright eyes, and Sirius’s keening wails.

Severus looked at me, aghast. He had not looked so betrayed even when he had met my gaze in the aftermath of my Cruciatus.

The resentment nursed deep in me over my life seared forth. I was angry at Albus. He was dead. He had left me, without child or marriage, without a profession of love or devotion, without granting me the least of what he had freely granted a monster he had imprisoned in Nuremberg for the greater good. I could not bear to hurt him with words, even now, even when he was trapped in a portrait. I could bear to hurt Severus though.

“Sucked his cock and made him sing his secrets like a canary, didn’t you? Brave work, that.”

“Minerva!”

His eyes were wide open in fear and I could see a tear or two trailing down his sallow cheeks.

“I could have told him, you know,” I told the wretch. “I could have told him. I knew. All the while, he searched and searched in vain for the face he had forgotten. I could have told him that and added that he only had to look in the same place for his Judas.”

“You should have,” Severus hissed, furious splotches of red marring his ugly, beloved face. I had loved him as a son, some years ago, before everything had fallen. “You should have. What would you know of sacrifice, Minerva? You waited and waited for Albus to take notice of you, withered your beauty away, and felt sorry for yourself everyday. You think you are a martyr. You are a fool!”

“How dare you, you ungrateful, ugly bastard!”

“You can call me all the names you want, Minerva. You claimed to love me. You claimed to care. You had me soiling myself under your Cruciatus and you exulted in that. The Dark Lord had never Cursed me, and had never called me ugly, until he returned raving mad. He killed the husk that was left. But I had died with him long ago, in 1981, after I had delivered him on a platter to Albus.”

My revulsion at his admission must have shown on my face, for he continued angrily, “I hated myself. I loved you, I loved Albus, I loved Lily’s boy - I wanted to do whatever I could to protect you. Before all of that, before every damn betrayal of mine that gave Albus strategic advantages, I loved the Dark Lord and he treated me kindly, kinder than Albus had ever been to you. If I sucked his cock, it was only because he wanted it and I wanted it. Albus did not want you. He did not give you anything you wanted. And that is the root of your anger - you have never been able to accept that.”

I sat down heavily, looking at his portrait but unable to articulate a word. Albus had never wanted me. I had known that, but Minerva McGongall had been bright, brilliant and highly desired by many. How, she had thought full of vanity, would Albus Dumbledore not desire her?

Faustus. Faustus. Hell’s fool willingly lost.

“Go out, Minerva,” Severus’ s portrait said in a broken voice, still full of kindness. “Please go out. Leave the dead behind. It is not too late, even now.”

~~~ 

The white tomb beside the Lake glinted in the pale moonlight. I walked past it, past where Hagrid’s Hut had once been, past the borders of the Castle, and ventured into the Forest. I walked and walked, heedless of the brambles cutting through the fine cloth of my skirts and scratching my legs, heedless of the centaurs that followed me warily, heedless of the ravens that soared above my head. I reached a clearing.

I had come here, once, when I had been a school-girl. Alastor had brought me here, and professed love. I had laughed, turned him down, and gone back to the school. Alastor was dead.

Fawkes waited there, looking at me unblinking. How had the bird known?

“Please,” I whispered, not knowing what I was asking for.

He did not come to me. Albus was dead and even his familiar would not acknowledge me. We remained there, staring at each other, until dawn. He flew away then. I walked back. What else could I do?

~~~ 

Narcissa Malfoy tried to avoid me at her husband’s funeral. I cornered her, just as I had once done at Walburga’s funeral.

She was not young, but she was still as pale and beautiful as winter’s first snow. There was stately grace even despite the black of her mourning and the red eyes puffy from tears.

“Professor McGongall,” she said, desperately casting her eyes about for a knight to come and save her from my clutches.

“What do you do?” I asked her, urgently.

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“What do you do? Isn’t everyone you know dead?”

She looked offended, full of the Black hauteur that had not deserted her even after burying all her relatives.

I amended my words, and asked, “I find myself at loose ends, ever so often.”

She thawed, and said slowly, “I suppose I had always known, deep inside, after Regulus’s death, that none of them would survive. I find it painful to wake to this world where they are dead. I find it difficult to fall sleep because I dream of them alive.”

She began playing with the heavy gold ring on her finger, a wedding ring, given to her by the man whose funeral we were at.

“What do you do?” I pressed.

She shrugged and the heavy fur loosely clasped around her shoulders fell an inch to reveal a dainty shoulder marred ugly by what looked like poker brands. I inhaled sharply.

“My sister,” she said uncomfortably, pushing the fur up. “She was quite mad after her stay in Azkaban. My husband and Severus shielded me from the worst of it, but there were times when they could not make it in time to stop Bella. It is ironical, because earlier in our life, Bella had protected me from my mother’s drunken excesses.”

I stared at her. She began toying with the fur and said nervously, “I don’t know what you wish to hear, Professor. I grieve, everyday, for all of them. I live, because I am alive, and there is no reason to throw it away, when so many died for making sure that we were spared. What do I do? Unlike you, I am not a woman of great scholarly aptitude. I do what I know. I sew, I paint, I garden, I teach young girls to do the same.”

~~~ 

I left Hogwarts the next day. Harry walked me to Hogsmeade and insisted on carrying my trunk. I had a trunk’s worth of possessions, and it was the same school-trunk that my parents had bought for my First Year.

“I hope you know that I will visit you regularly,” Harry said, worried. “I will expect you to write to me regularly too.”

“I am not an invalid, Harry.”

“I know!” Harry exclaimed. “I am worried.”

He chivvied me into an empty train compartment, made sure that I was ensconced by a window, with a cup of black tea by my elbow, and a throw over my knees.

“Be well, Harry.”

He harrumphed, patted my hand, cast me a worried glance, cast me another worried glance, and yelped in shock when I cast a Stinging Hex targeted perfectly at his rump.

“Professor!”

“Away with you,” I advised him. “I will write.”

He rubbed the seat of his trousers, looked me at me accusingly, and left me alone.

~~~ 

I walked across the River Ness, towards Bank Street. The land smelled of mussels and paint. There were fishermen, just as there had been during my childhood. There were massive cranes constructing tall Muggle buildings. Inverness had grown considerably from the little town by the river that it had been when my parents had first built their home here.

I walked past St. Andrews, thinking of the time when I had brought Severus here. He had been Catholic and revered old cathedrals. He had excitedly babbled Muggle history to me, when we had walked to Old High. He had listened eagerly when I had told him of the Celtic worship site that the church was built on, and of how Wizards and Muggles had all used it as a congregation location in times of grave danger.

Bagpipes played by the river, a group of boys shouted and howled as they watched a game of Shinty, men were making their way towards pubs, women stood in the market square gossiping, kites dotted the bright, blue skies, and the gate of my parents’s home was a turnstile I opened without even having to look.

Ivy covered the white walls, flower-beds were full of weeds, the henhouses were empty, and the barn had collapsed.

All of that would change by the time Harry decided to invite himself over to check up on me. Tomorrow. I grinned and walked towards the square-topped house, deciding that even Faustus would not be foolish enough to ruin himself twice.

My neighbours were waulking. They sang merrily as they beat newly woven tweed rhythmically against wooden tables.

“Ceud sourish soiridh bhuam na e hò hao oho Gu strath m'eòlais na hi ri rirì ò.”   
A hundred greetings from me, to the strath I know.

Minerva McGongall was home.

~~~ end ~~~ 

 

__  
The Gaelic waulking song - Ceud soiridh soiridh bhuam [A hundred greetings from me]  
Mephistopheles, Faustus - characters from Marlowe’s Faust.  


You can read the other stories in my Minerva Quartet: [Thy Kingdom Come](http://eldritcher.livejournal.com/3027.html), [I, Alastor](http://eldritcher.livejournal.com/7237.html) and [How Do You Like Your Blue-eyed Boys?](http://eldritcher.livejournal.com/6549.html)

Please write to me! I'd love to hear what you think about the piece.

~~~ 


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